Page 129 of Boardroom Mask

“What time is it?” I mumble.

“Early.” He rounds the bed and leaves a clean-shaven kiss on my temple. “Go back to sleep.”

I ignore him and prop myself up on one elbow. “Where are you going?”

“Board meeting.” He pulls the belt tight and fastens it. “It’s going to be a long one. I won’t be able to text or call today. Don’t read into it.”

“Who, me? I never read into anything.”

He gives me a look that says he knows that’s bullshit, then bends down to give me a proper kiss. This one is slow and careful, his hand warm on my jaw. He tastes like toothpaste and coffee.

“Stay here,” he instructs against my mouth. “I want you just like this when I get home.” He hesitates, then even adds, “Please.”

I grin as little spring-loaded spirals of joy go bouncing around in my abdomen. “Okay. But only because you asked so nicely.”

He winks. Then he straightens, grabs his coat off the chair, and is gone.

I lie there for another few minutes listening to the silence of his apartment. Being a kept woman wouldn’t be so bad, I don’t think. Sleep in, wake up to a beautiful man giving you sweet kisses, maybe grab a matcha latte and hit Pilates with the other hot kept women sometime around noon.

Then I remember that I am Jillian Motherfucking Pierce, and I do not need anyone tokeep me.I keep myself. So, paying homage to the feminist icons who shaped me, I roll out of bed, pull on Kir’s discarded T-shirt from last night and a pair of his sweatpants that I have to roll about a billion times at the waist, and pad barefoot to the kitchen.

This isn’t my usual office, but it’ll do.

I grab my laptop and notes from my bag and spread everything out across the black marble counter. Even though I’ve done it so many times I can basically see the words etched on the backs of my eyelids, I once again go through exactly what I know. It’s this, more or less:

Elena Sergeeva Lazareva, wife of Lukas Lazarev, officially died of a prolonged illness eighteen years ago. Closed casket, nooutsiders, no public cause of death. Contrary to that cover story, her remains were recovered from a construction dig site in Astoria seven weeks ago and positively identified through dental records by the Queens medical examiner’s office. Toxicology on preserved bone marrow showed lethal levels of phenobarbital. Sleeping pills killed her, not illness. Giovanni Ochoa, the morgue attendant who first flagged the discrepancy, reached out to me on Signal and then vanished before we could meet. He’s been missing for over a month now.

That is, as we say in the newspaper biz, “juicy.”

Now comes the hard part: actually writing the damn article. For some reason, this always gives me nervous butterflies. I’ve done all the work that can be done, butdoing the workandinforming the world about the workare two completely different things. Unfortunately for me, hemming and hawing about the placement of every last little comma in my article is not an option. Doug has made it very clear that numerous sources both within and outside of the paper are sniffing around this whole mess from various angles, so it’s in my best interest to get it done sooner rather than later. And even if I was the only one with the scoop, his end-of-the-year timeline remains a giant hoop to jump through before he takes my golden goose and passes it off to someone else.

Can’t have that happen. I’ve come way too damn far.

So with a big breath, I dive in.

I write for three hours straight, barely looking up. The words come easier than I expected once I stop overthinking and just lay it out. It’s like day one of J-school all over again: Who, what, where, when, how, and most hauntingly of all,why?That last question is mostly left as an exercise for the reader, but it’s notexactly hard to draw the darts here. If only I could get Kir to go on record talking about what he saw the night his mother died.Thatwould blow up newsstands around the planet.

For now, though, this is a start. There’ll be more articles to come, I’m sure of it. We’ve only just scratched the tip of the iceberg, or whatever the expression is. I was always terrible with similes.

Around noon, I stretch my arms over my head and grab my phone off the counter. I haven’t heard from Rae in a concerningly long time, so I decide to give her a buzz.

Weirdly, it rings five times and then abruptly cuts off, not even sending me to voicemail. That’s strange. But when I try again, I only get two rings before the dead air comes rushing back in.

I hang up, make myself a cup of coffee in Kir’s espresso machine, and try again a little while later. This time, no rings at all. It’s like I’m being warned to stay away.

To hell with that, though. Frowning, I text her:Call me when you can, just want to hear your voice.

The message delivers, but there’s no read receipt and no typing bubble. I set the phone on the counter and chew my lip. This isn’t like her. Rae always picks up for me. Always.

Surely Lukas hasn’t…?

No. I can’t think like that. We’re on the verge ofgoodthings here. Rae is probably perfectly fine, my article is almost done, and I’m falling in— God, “falling in lust” doesn’t really cut it anymore, does it?

I mean, let’s be honest with ourselves here. Let’s call it what it is.

I’m falling in love with Kir Lazarev.

There. I said it. Even if it was only in my head, and nobody heard it but me and the espresso machine, it’s out now. Can’t unsay it. Can’t stuff it back into the locked-and-barred room in my heart I’ve been keeping it in.